


Half Light

by mangochi



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom M'Baku, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Overstimulation, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Service Top, no plot only feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 06:39:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14183091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangochi/pseuds/mangochi
Summary: “We have been dancing about this long enough.” M’Baku leans in close, sets his hand on the wall beside T’Challa’s head to keep him in place. The narrow alcove in the wall conceals them from the others passing in the adjacent hall, but just barely. “Let us speak plainly now, my king.”For a heartbeat, T’Challa allows himself a wild, burning hope.





	Half Light

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't considered bottom M'Baku yet you're wrong, in this essay i will

M’Baku is still dressed, when T’Challa arrives at his chambers. This in itself is strange enough that T’Challa pauses just inside the doors, surprised.

This is not how it usually goes.

It has been three months now, since the beginning of their...arrangement. The word is not quite right; it has a distant feel to it that T’Challa dislikes, but M’Baku refuses to call it anything else, and so T’Challa indulges him. They have their Council meetings, M’Baku making a game of seeing how many times he can smirk at T’Challa unnoticed, and afterwards, when the Council members have dispersed to their chambers during their stay, T’Challa makes his way quietly into M’Baku’s bed,

But today, M’Baku shifted uncomfortably in his seat throughout the meeting, ignoring T’Challa’s questioning glances, his interjections more dour than usual, and now he sits at the foot of his bed, arms crossed over his chest. T’Challa watches him carefully, attempting to gauge the situation. “Should I go?” he finally asks, when M’Baku only glowers down at the floor. He does not want to leave, but M’Baku need only say the word.

M’Baku says nothing at all, only gives a grunt that can mean anything.

T’Challa ventures a step closer. There is something odd about the way M’Baku holds himself, and he realizes, after a moment, that M’Baku is favoring his right side ever so slightly. He gestures, catching M’Baku’s attention. “Lose a fight recently?”

“I did not _lose_.” M’Baku scowls at him, but he relaxes subtly. Perhaps he was only waiting for T’Challa to ask. T’Challa wants to reach out, to see and feel the truth for himself. He stops himself before he can do so and clasps his hands behind his back instead.

“Let me see.”

“It is nothing.”

“M’Baku,” T’Challa says. He lets his voice dip down lower, coaxing, and M’Baku’s gaze turns wary. “M’Baku, I would just like to see.”

“It is more insult than injury,” M’Baku says stiffly. It is as close as he has ever come to admitting embarrassment in front of T’Challa. T’Challa only waits, his posture loose and unthreatening. Another long moment passes, then M’Baku sighs and begins undoing his leather armor, plucking irritably at the straps. “You are making a fuss out of nothing.”

“Maybe so.” T’Challa crosses the room and, after a moment of hesitation, kneels down in front of M’Baku. M’Baku’s fingers do not still, but he glances up in challenge, a hint of heat flaring behind his gaze, and T’Challa waits, leaning back on his heels. This, this feels more like their usual. The ebb and flow of control, their two wills meeting and entangling and withdrawing again. They have their roles to play here, no matter how much he wishes to disregard them.

M’Baku sets the leather pieces of his armor aside, and he drops his hands to the bottom of the thin shirt he wears beneath, bare arms flexing in the dim light. T’Challa watches him, shameless here in a way he cannot allow himself to be at any other time, in any other place.

He does not hold back a small sound of appreciation as M’Baku pulls the shirt over his head, his eyes tracing down M’Baku’s chest, his stomach, and finally coming to rest on the large bruise spread over the lower quadrant of his ribs. It has the look of being on the mend, the edges yellowing and fading, but the heart of it still looks painful enough for T’Challa to wince in sympathy.

“How did it happen?”

“Border skirmish,” M’Baku says dismissively. “Raiders making off with our sheep. The usual. It was nothing.”

“Hm.” T’Challa reaches out carefully, and when M’Baku does not stop him, he touches the bruise gently, tracing his fingertips around its irregular shape. M’Baku’s skin is warm, and T’Challa pretends he does not notice that M’Baku is suddenly holding his breath. “Anything broken?”

“Bones heal.”

T’Challa vows to himself that he will be more patient, the next time Shuri scolds him for his recklessness. The swelling is not as extreme as it would be if there were broken bones beneath the skin, he tells himself, and he swallows back his concern, knowing it will not be welcome here.

M’Baku shifts slightly, his knees twitching wider apart, and T’Challa’s eyes flick down despite himself. When he catches himself and glances back up, M’Baku is grinning knowingly.

“Don't tease,” T’Challa says, but he’s reluctantly amused, and he sets a hand on M’Baku’s knee. “Shall I spoil you today, then?”

M’Baku squints at him in clear suspicion, and T’Challa gives his knee a gentle squeeze. His heart flutters in his chest, like a struggling bird.

“Relax.”

“I do not need to be _coddled_.”

“When did I say anything about coddling?” T’Challa slides his hand up higher, his thumb stroking over the inside of M’Baku’s thigh, and he notes with interest that M’Baku does not protest it. “Come now, don't be afraid.”

M’Baku snorts, his foot nudging at T’Challa’s belly warningly. “You think I am afraid?”

“I think you should lie back,” T’Challa answers, “and let me make you comfortable.” He smiles wider as he says it, and M’Baku watches him warily. There, he is intrigued now. T’Challa can see it in his face, that incorrigible curiosity that led them to this in the first place.

_“We have been dancing about this long enough.” M’Baku leans in close, sets his hand on the wall beside T’Challa’s head to keep him in place. The narrow alcove in the wall conceals them from the others passing in the adjacent hall, but just barely. “Let us speak plainly now, my king.”_

_For a heartbeat, T’Challa allows himself a wild, burning hope._

_Then M’Baku presses a knee between his thighs, grins at him with reckless abandon, and T’Challa knows then that he can never speak of what he dared to hope for, for that one shining moment._

Sure enough, M’Baku finally grunts and pushes himself back on the bed, legs sprawled open lazily to allow T’Challa space between them. “It better be good.”

“I will try my best,” T’Challa says drily. Inwardly, he celebrates this small victory. He sets both hands on M’Baku’s thighs, sliding them up to M’Baku’s hips as he leans up and braces a knee at the edge of the mattress. M’Baku’s breath is warm on his face. T’Challa looks down at him, soft enough to coax M’Baku’s face up towards his. His mouth is even warmer.

M’Baku enjoys being kissed. It is something T’Challa was pleasantly surprised to discover, when this all began, and he does it now as often as he can manage. M’Baku’s hands come up eventually to frame T’Challa’s face, calloused palms and fingertips catching at his cheekbones, his beard, holding him in place as M’Baku licks deeper into his mouth. His hands have always been tender in a way that his demeanor is not, honest in a way that M’Baku does not allow himself to be.

T’Challa presses his thumbs into the lines of muscle above M’Baku’s hips, gentles his touch to trace carefully around the edges of the bruise, and M’Baku gives an abrupt exhale, a tremor shuddering through him. It is as if he's woken from a dream, shaking free of it with a twitch of his fingers. “Come on, then,” he mutters, his lips moving against T’Challa’s, and he pushes T’Challa back. “Haven't got all day.”

Despite his impatience, M’Baku is unexpectedly compliant as T’Challa undresses him, lifting his hips as T’Challa unclasps his leather skirt and pulls it out from under him.

“Do you know what seeing you in this does to me?” T’Challa asks mildly, holding the skirt up before setting it to the side.

“Why do you think I wear it?” M’Baku leans back against the large pile of pillows at the head of the bed and smirks. He strokes himself lazily as T’Challa shrugs off his own robes, one knee bent in invitation. T’Challa swallows at the sight of M’Baku’s cock sliding hard and slick into the circle of M’Baku’s grasp, a hard knot of heat twisting in his belly.

M’Baku does not know what he does to T’Challa, of that, T’Challa is certain. They may seek each other out like this on occasion, joining mouths, hands, bodies, but M’Baku cannot know the space he has etched out for himself in the chambers of T’Challa’s mind, the dreams that T’Challa has had, when there is no one to see and know and judge but himself. _I want more_ , he imagines himself saying. Imagines the scoff he would surely receive in return, the dismissive toss of M’Baku’s head.

_Greedy panther, always asking for more than can be given._

The jar of oil is in its usual place by the headboard of the bed, and the familiar scent of lightly crushed flowers fills T’Challa’s senses as he kneels between M’Baku’s thighs and pours a careful handful into his palm. M’Baku’s eyes are heavy on him, the weight of a mountain behind his gaze.

“It has been some time,” he says suddenly, and T’Challa glances up at him, surprised. The oil drips from between his fingers, a few drops landing on M’Baku’s stomach.

“I'll be careful.” Privately, T’Challa feels a thrill at the admission.

“I didn’t ask you to be careful,” M’Baku grumbles, shifting restlessly as T’Challa drags a slick hand up from his knee to his hip, leaving behind a glistening trail.

“If I only did what you asked, we would sit here the whole night like a couple of monks,” T’Challa says mildly. He slides down to lie between M’Baku’s legs, and he takes the head of M’Baku’s cock between his lips, tongue flicking out just enough to catch a taste. M’Baku makes a deep, pleased rumble, then sighs as T’Challa kisses his way down M’Baku’s cock and down further to his balls. Another soft noise, like a benediction, and he descends lower still, settling his hands on the backs of M’Baku’s thighs to keep them open.

“What-” M’Baku mutters, then chokes as T’Challa bends his head and kisses over M’Baku’s hole, driving a startled grunt out of him.

“Your _Majesty_ ,” M’Baku says, taking on a ridiculously scandalous tone, and T’Challa licks deeper into him, so that M’Baku finally loses his words.

At first M’Baku is quiet, his breathing punctuated with the occasional heavy exhale as T’Challa works him loose, spreading M’Baku open with his thumbs to fuck his tongue in deeper. Then T’Challa lifts his face to mouth wetly at M’Baku’s balls, and M’Baku grinds out the hint of a groan when T’Challa’s thumb catches on his rim, his stomach clenching tight before relaxing again.

“Good?” T’Challa murmurs, his mouth pressed to the crease of M’Baku’s thigh.

“Don’t ask me that.” M’Baku’s breaths come in shaky pants now, his voice straining when T’Challa traces around his entrance with a slick fingertip. “Enough of this. I’m ready.”

“You are not,” T’Challa says. He eases his finger in, petting soothingly at M’Baku’s thigh when M’Baku’s knees instinctively attempt to twitch closed.

“ _I_ decide when I am ready,” M’Baku announces, then bites his lip when T’Challa curls his finger, stroking him from the inside out.

“Good?” T’Challa asks, watching his face.

M’Baku looks as if he is struggling greatly with something, then he grunts and shifts slightly, relaxing around T’Challa’s finger. “Don't ask stupid questions.” He accepts the rest of the preparation with the air of one eager to see the end of an ordeal, or perhaps one who is determined to not show his enjoyment of it. His face is damp with sweat by the time T’Challa is three fingers deep, and his cock twitches hard on his belly, his thighs smeared with oil.

“If you don't get in me,” M’Baku says, his eyebrows stern, voice thundering like a storm, “I will take my enemies’ advice and go fuck myself.”

T’Challa snorts at that, but he withdraws his fingers obligingly, and he tries not to be distracted by the way M’Baku’s body clings around him, the way M’Baku’s jaw tightens with the effort of holding in a groan.

He slides a hand under M’Baku’s thigh, eases it out and up towards M’Baku’s chest. He works his way in slowly, gasping at the tight heat, the way M’Baku immediately clenches around him. It’s good, it's _too_ good, and the words nearly slip free, but M’Baku suddenly swears loudly and T’Challa comes to a trembling halt, trying to remember how to speak.

“Should I st-”

“Fuck- don't you fucking _dare_ ,” M’Baku snaps out. His voice is thick and strained, his chest heaving as he tries to push out air that is not there.

“M’Baku,” T’Challa says, and he braces his other hand on M’Baku’s chest, fingertips at his collarbone. “Breathe.” He ought to take his own advice; he feels a weight in his chest, pressing against his heart, growing larger by the second and strangling him from the inside.

M’Baku sucks in a rough, unsteady breath, his eyes hazy. When he exhales, his voice hitches, a not-quite-there sound that resounds through T’Challa. His arm jerks up, the motion clumsy and involuntary, and he covers T’Challa’s hand heavily with his own, keeping it in place. Together, they feel the drumbeat of his heart, a rapid pounding beneath T’Challa’s palm.

T’Challa’s chest aches so sharply that he fears he will burst from it. “ _M’Baku_ ,” he says again, helpless, and M’Baku blinks at him slowly, dazedly, sweat glistening on his brow. T’Challa adjusts his grip on M’Baku’s thigh, presses it up higher, and M’Baku finally, _finally_ makes a soft noise, low in the back of his throat.

“Yes,” T’Challa breathes, and he gives a slow roll of his hips, his heart swelling as M’Baku’s mouth falls open, the smallest of moans escaping him. The sound is enough to snap M’Baku back to awareness, and he immediately scowls, letting go of T’Challa’s hand to grip the sheets instead. T’Challa tries not to show his disappointment.

“Let me-” M’Baku mumbles then, his shoulders twisting oddly, and T’Challa realizes he’s trying to turn over.

“Ah, wait-” T’Challa catches him, holds him there with his hands on M’Baku’s arms. “Don't. You're injured,” he adds, and M’Baku blinks twice, as if he has forgotten. “Besides…” He moves again, circles his hips slightly, and M’Baku’s teeth click together on a cut-off grunt. “I want to see you.”

M’Baku mutters under his breath, too mangled for T’Challa to make out, and his hands go to his pillow instead, folding the sides up petulantly around his face. T’Challa decides to let it go for the time being. He moves again carefully, rocking in place until M’Baku makes a muffled, impatient sound, his other leg tightening around T’Challa’s hips.

“Faster,” he demands. His fingers are tight on the pillowcase, threatening to tear through the thin fabric. “ _F_ _aster_ , damn you.”

T’Challa obliges.

M’Baku spits out a stifled curse and abandons his grip on the pillow to wrap an arm around T’Challa’s neck instead, dragging him down and closer. T’Challa’s next thrust comes harder than he intends, his control slipping briefly at the hot slide of M’Baku’s skin against his, and M’Baku groans, his arm tightening desperately.

T’Challa slows down, enough so he can feel every centimeter of himself dragging against M’Baku’s rim, grinding deep without pulling out, and he watches in fascination as M’Baku slowly shakes apart beneath him. M’Baku’s eyes are clenched tight, his throat working soundlessly as he gasps for air, and T’Challa bends to nuzzle clumsily over his cheek, turning his head to mouth at M’Baku’s ear.

“M’Baku,” he gasps, and M’Baku jerks against him, a tight groan vibrating against T’Challa’s chest. “You're so good, do you know that? You, this-” He thrusts in deep, feels M’Baku’s shocked exhale against his cheek as he’s jostled against the mattress. “It’s perfect. You're perfect.”

“Will you stop that nonsense,” M’Baku says, his voice rough. “You've already gotten in my bed.”

“Do you think I would not say this otherwise?” T’Challa catches M’Baku’s earlobe between his teeth, bites down with just enough pressure to make M’Baku shiver. T’Challa wonders what M’Baku will do if he draws blood, if M’Baku’s taste will linger there on his tongue afterwards. “You are beautiful.”

M’Baku groans in exasperation and thumps his back with a closed fist, but only halfheartedly, and he buries his face in T’Challa’s shoulder afterwards, his breath heavy and damp on T’Challa’s chest. T’Challa cradles him close, fucks him deeper, and feels himself splintering.

“Look at me,” T’Challa says, pleads. M’Baku jerks his head from side to side, his fingernails digging into T’Challa’s back. The scratches will heal, faster than T’Challa wants. He wishes they will stay forever. “Please.”

“Forgotten what I look like already?” M’Baku asks, the hitch of a laugh in his voice, and T’Challa pulls back enough that M’Baku is forced to tip his head back against the pillow. His eyes are feverish, mouth open as he pants for breath. T’Challa kisses him, hard enough that M’Baku cannot forget this, cannot simply laugh this away like so many other things. How can he even suggest such things, even in jest, as if T’Challa can ever forget anything about him?

Their eyes meet, lock together, and T’Challa wonders what M’Baku sees in his face in that moment. _Too much_ , he thinks, suddenly. He is showing too much, has let his mask fall and break into a thousand irredeemable pieces.

“You are a cruel king,” M’Baku murmurs, and he draws T’Challa down for another kiss. His fingers curl tightly around the back of T’Challa’s neck, and the kiss tastes of salt. T’Challa clutches at him, and he swallows M’Baku’s low gasps eagerly until he is dizzy with it.

“Shall I tell you how much I've envisioned this?” T’Challa asks, barely managing to keep his voice even. M’Baku doesn't seem to hear, his head tipping back as T’Challa takes him deeper, in long, rhythmic strokes that drive soft groans out of him. T’Challa bends and licks up the column of his exposed throat, presses his mouth over M’Baku’s pulse.

“You look even better,” he says, “than I imagined. If you could see yourself as I do- if you knew- M’Baku, you are magnificent. Does it hurt?” He can no longer keep track of the words spilling from him, the incoherent flow of his thoughts like the chafing rapids, and he fumbles down for M’Baku’s side.

“No, you idiot.” M’Baku catches his hand, squeezes it tight. T’Challa can feel M’Baku’s pulse between his fingers, two drumbeats merging. “Stop talking.”

“I can’t,” T’Challa says, and he laughs helplessly. It shakes the two of them, and M’Baku holds him tighter. “Fuck, you feel so good.”

M’Baku somehow manages an incredulous snort. “Say that again,” he demands. “You sound ridiculous.”

T’Challa kisses him instead, M’Baku’s tongue hot and slick against his, his teeth catching at T’Challa’s lip. He puts a million things left unsaid into the kiss, M’Baku’s pulse mirroring his in their tangled hands.

“Are you close?” he murmurs, nudging his mouth under M’Baku’s chin, feeling M’Baku swallow beneath him. He fumbles a hand down, wraps his fingers around M’Baku’s cock, and lets their bodies do the moving, the growing volume of M’Baku’s groans the only encouragement he needs.

“Don't ask-”

“Stupid questions. I know.” T’Challa tightens his grip, thumbs over the head. M’Baku moans, long and shaky, and T’Challa does it again, changes the angle of his thrusts slightly.

“ _T’Challa_ ,” M’Baku chokes out, his voice hitching high, and he shudders in one long, beautiful line as he spills over T’Challa’s hand, dripping on his belly. T’Challa looks down at him, shaking with pleasure, mouth still open around the shape of T’Challa’s name, and his own release drags him mercilessly under.

He is dimly aware of M’Baku’s hands on his back, petting at him, as he trembles and gasps, his face pressed tightly to M’Baku’s shoulder. He does not know whose sweat he tastes, whose heartbeat pounds so madly in his chest. When he rolls away onto his side and slips free of M’Baku, it takes him a moment too long to remember they are not one and the same.

“Mm,” M’Baku says eloquently, his chest heaving. T’Challa pushes himself up, still breathless, and looks down at him, lets his gaze drag heavy from the top of M’Baku’s head down to his curled toes. His legs are spread carelessly, and T’Challa reaches out almost unthinkingly.

“ _Fuck_ ,” M’Baku gasps, when T’Challa pushes two fingers back inside him, the way made slick with oil and his own come. He grasps weakly at T’Challa’s shoulder, eyes wide and glazed, and T’Challa makes a soothing sound, twisting his fingers slowly. M’Baku’s cock twitches, spent and damp on his belly, and he groans, long and stuttering.

“Too much?” T’Challa murmurs, knowing the answer, and M’Baku’s jaw clenches with the dogged determination of a man who has never been able to resist a challenge. T’Challa draws his fingers out to the tip and and presses back in to his knuckles, separates them and marvels at the easy stretch, the way M’Baku tries to tighten around him and cannot. He matches his rhythm to M’Baku’s breaths, and loses himself into the softness around him, the way M’Baku’s voice rises and breaks with each helpless breath.

“Please,” M’Baku finally groans, the plea thin and hoarse. “Please, for the love of- T’Challa, please-” He squeezes down weakly around T’Challa’s fingers, his chest heaving in rapid, shallow pants, and T’Challa curls his fingers, presses up relentlessly against M’Baku’s prostate.

M’Baku jerks with a weak cry, his cock managing a slow dribble over his lower belly, smearing into dark curls of hair as he fumbles a hand down to cup himself protectively, his fingers trembling. T’Challa keeps still a moment longer before easing out, setting his hand on M’Baku’s sweat-slick thigh. It twitches beneath his touch, tremors shivering through M’Baku as he lies there.

“All right?” T’Challa asks. His voice does not seem his own. He looks down at his own hand, curved around M’Baku’s leg as if it belongs there, and he pulls away, gripping his own hands together in his lap instead. He watches the flutter of M’Baku’s eyelids as he struggles to open his eyes, his lips bruised and swollen from the press of his teeth.

M’Baku grunts, and he drags an arm over his eyes, exhaling in an exhausted huff. T’Challa watches him a moment longer, hesitating, then slides off the bed to fetch a washcloth. M’Baku is in the same position when he returns, only sucking in a disgruntled breath when T’Challa runs the damp cloth over his belly.

“You’ve killed me,” M’Baku mutters, his voice slurring wearily. T’Challa gives a low hum, swiping gently over M’Baku’s soft cock and watching him shiver. One of these days, he thinks distractedly, as his hand dips down to clean between M’Baku’s thighs, he will do this with his own mouth and see how many times M’Baku can come apart for him.

“Hey.” M’Baku bumps the back of his hand against T’Challa’s leg, and T’Challa glances up at him, surprised. M’Baku looks at him for a long moment, as if searching for something in T’Challa’s face. “You’re quiet.”

“Perhaps I’m merely lost in contemplation.”

“Stop that.”

“What?” T’Challa is smiling and doesn’t remember why, his jaw aching. It is not the only thing that hurts, nor the worst. “Stop what?”

“T’Challa.” M’Baku sounds impossibly, undeniably kind, and T’Challa blinks rapidly. He is not prepared for this, he realizes. Something has shifted irreversibly between them- he has shown too much of himself, has let M’Baku look into him too closely, and something has looked back. They are hurtling towards a cliff of his own devising, and M’Baku drags him along unknowingly, his back to the ravine ahead of them.

M’Baku reaches up and touches his cheek, runs his thumb beneath T’Challa’s eye. It is a gentle touch; it might as well be a spear twisting in T’Challa’s heart. M’Baku looks at him again, carefully, and grips T’Challa’s chin tight when he tries to look away. “You’re upset.”

“What do I have to be upset about?” T’Challa asks lightly. He is not upset, he tells himself. He cannot afford to be.

“What do you have to- Hanuman’s sake, T’Challa, how should I know? Tell me.”

“Let it go, M’Baku.” He lets an edge of warning seep into his tone, his stomach rolling. He tries a coaxing smile, tipping his head to the side. “Why don't we speak of something else?”

Naturally, it has no effect on M’Baku. He rolls onto his side with a faint groan, brow furrowed, and studies T’Challa’s face. “Was it not good?”

T’Challa cannot help but laugh at that, a short rueful huff of air. That M’Baku could even suggest such a thing… “No, not that. How could it not have been good?”

“I thought you were a panther, not the Great Parrot,” M’Baku says sharply. “Speak plainly.”

_Let us speak plainly, my king._

When he was young, T’Challa had a great fear of heights. He clung to his father’s robes, weeping, as they stood on the high cliffs overlooking the plains. The winds snatched at his clothes, and he imagined they would carry him away, like the hawks that would swoop down to steal chickens away.

He cannot remember what resolved the fear, in the end. Perhaps he simply grew out of it, when reason overcame baseless instinct.

Now, however, he feels as he did then as a small child, tears on his cheeks and braced for an endless fall that has yet to come.

“Is this enough for you?” T’Challa blurts out. He doesn’t think that he entirely intended to. M’Baku’s face is openly shocked for the split second before he regains his composure, and T’Challa already regrets his outburst. “This,” he continues, quieter now. He clenches his hands on his knees, forces himself to hold M’Baku’s eye. He is a king, he tells himself. He cannot look away from his own mistakes. “What we are. What we aren’t. Is this enough for you?”

M’Baku’s mouth opens and closes soundlessly. There is something odd in his eyes, something too bright and distant for T’Challa to immediately recognize. “Is it not enough?” he finally asks. His voice is soft, and if T’Challa did not know M’Baku better, he would think that it wavers with uncertainty.

“No.” It’s easy enough to say, after all. Perhaps he should’ve said it sooner. “We-” His throat is tight, and he swallows hard, feels it cut into him painfully like glass. “We-” T’Challa cannot even speak this time, and he is horrified to feel his eyes burning, his chest aching with the force of a thousand bullets. He would rather face the judgment of the world than the eyes of the man before him. He opens his mouth and a sound escapes him that he does not recognize, small and wounded like an animal.

“T’Challa. T’Challa, listen to me.” M’Baku’s voice sounds dim, as if coming from a great distance, and T’Challa feels fingers close around his wrist, strong and warm and urgent. “Listen.” A broad palm presses to his cheek, M’Baku’s thumb dragging roughly over one eye, wiping at the wetness there. T’Challa turns his face blindly towards the touch, leans his forehead into M’Baku’s hand and takes in a ragged breath.

What kind of a king is he, he despairs, if he cannot even rule himself?

For a long moment, neither of them move. T’Challa feels the heat of M’Baku’s body against his, hot where they are touching and even hotter everywhere else.

“I will say this once,” M’Baku says, “and only once.” His voice is low, gentle, and T’Challa finds himself wishing for cruelty instead. Kinder that way, like a knife to the throat. “Are you listening?”

T’Challa nods, feels the heel of M’Baku’s palm dig into his temple. He cannot trust himself to speak. M’Baku leans in, his breath hot and familiar at T’Challa’s ear. Like this, they need not look at each other. T’Challa doesn't know which he prefers.

“I would be yours,” M’Baku murmurs, and T’Challa’s heart lodges in his throat. “If you asked me. Do you know that? You must.” M’Baku’s grasp on his wrist slackens, his thumb stroking idly across the soft skin over T’Challa’s pulse. A tender gesture, from anyone else. But no, T’Challa realizes, perhaps it has been that all along.

“Will you ask me?” He feels M’Baku’s voice more than he hears it, an unguarded hesitation there he did not notice before. This vulnerability, soft and wavering as it is, seems times more genuine than the bravado that faces the rest of the world.

Falling is not so difficult after all, when M’Baku’s hand is in his.

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” T’Challa says, repeating M’Baku’s words from before. “Is that not what you said to me?” He turns his hand in the loose circle of M’Baku’s fingers, and it is his turn now to cling to M’Baku, pulling him into a fierce embrace.

M’Baku’s lips press against his shoulder, his neck, his jaw and then his mouth, and the relief pouring from him is so strong that T’Challa can nearly taste it.

“Stupid king,” M’Baku mutters, not unfondly. His hand travels down the length of T’Challa’s spine and up again, gripping the back of his neck. “How could you not know?”

“I don’t know.”

“Ah, and that’s why you are stupid.” M’Baku cuffs the back of his head lightly, then rubs it, his mouth curling in a smile against T’Challa’s jaw. “That’s all right. I can have the looks _and_ the brains.”

“You can have anything,” T’Challa says mindlessly. “Anything you want.”

“Promises, promises. Dangerous from a king.” M’Baku pulls back slightly and considers him, eyes dancing. “Would you give your throne?”

“If you wish. I was thinking of having it replaced, anyway.”

“I see. Your riches, then?”

“I have no head for accounting. You are welcome to it.” T’Challa watches, breathless, as M’Baku leans in again, slow and deliberate.

“Mm, generous.” M’Baku pauses, his gaze dipping lower. They are but a breath apart, and T’Challa finds himself swaying forward. “Well,” M’Baku says decisively, “it is good that I want none of those things.”

He meets T’Challa halfway.

  


**Author's Note:**

> I still feel more comfortable writing M'Baku's POV, I think, but T'Challa is fun when he's Sad.
> 
> Send requests and yell with me on tumblr @mangopuffs  
> Twitter: @_mangochi


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